


A Deed Without a Name

by lionessvalenti



Category: Sleep No More - Punchdrunk
Genre: Canon Related, Dreams, Gen, Sonnets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 01:41:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2795117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lionessvalenti/pseuds/lionessvalenti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She dreams of a castle, of a wood; of a manor by the sea. She dreams of a hotel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Deed Without a Name

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sexonastick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sexonastick/gifts).



> Thanks to C for beta reading and for introducing me to this amazing show.

She dreams, at first. She dreams of shadow and blood. The daylight fading away into darkness. She dreams of a castle, of a wood, and of a hotel. She dreams of a manor on the sea, secretive and silent, awash in moonlight.

She dreams of a night that never ends. Of everlasting joy and crushing pain. She can feel the beat of Hecate's breath calling her. Not yet, so soon.

She procures a razor from the folds of her dress and she hacks at the tangled locks of her hair until it's nearly gone. She runs the razor over her scalp, until her head is smooth.

Arms wrap around her from both sides. She smiles at her companions. A hand runs over her newly bald head. She doesn't know whose hand it is, but it doesn't matter. They're one as much as they are separate. Together, a spark runs through her like a match against a stone.

"Fair is foul and foul is fair," her brother whispers in her ear. His hand rests on her breast. His eyes are dark like the starless sky.

"Fair is foul and foul is fair," whispers the voice of her beautiful sister on her other side, and then a mouth upon her neck.

She smiles. "Fair is foul and foul is fair. Blood will have blood."

_Blood will have blood._

* * *

for once the gate was barred, it opens now,  
you walk into unknowing through the trees,  
moonlight guides your way in its hushed vow,  
with no promise of safe return for these;  
the path unwinds before you, beckoning,  
and so drawn in to woods own beating heart,  
she waits for you to come for reckoning,  
undo for some, but you, in aching part;  
she tells you whispered tales of rotten wood,  
lost in a world of vacant death she cries,  
so cast back into forest, understood,  
to forge through on new paths with opened eyes;  
this much is certain: we cannot return,  
but for her to leave is to only yearn.

* * *

She applies her lipstick and adjusts her wig. She must conceal her true self before she can reveal it. She meets the eyes of her sister in the mirror and they share a smile.

This is the beginning of the end of the beginning.

She knows her steps, every moment like she knows the lines of her hands, or the warmth of her brother's breath on her bare neck; of blood hot under her fingers. The game is rigged and she's tugging at the strings. The night may cut them into the pieces, but they will always come together whole.

"Come," her sister says, but she doesn't say it at all. The words are unspoken, but she can still hear them. "He's waiting."

She glances once more in the mirror. Yes, the same as before, each piece laid out like a game, but new once again. The anticipation fills her, warms her, like the scent of wine before lifting the glass to her lips.

No, there are no words. Only movement. The dance will begin, and the night will be theirs. Each circle takes its toll, but it always brings them back here. Right where she wants to be.

All hail.

* * *

a darkness falls across the gallow green,  
say hush! now, here comes the woman in red,  
from out the smoke she moves, the fallen queen,  
and words once spoken now left unsaid;  
a devil pressed smile on bloodied lips,  
in knowing, the aural quick of her voice,  
on tongue, a story, talk of paper ships,  
and all is left no words, no sounds, no choice;  
for soon she eats of hearts and madness lie  
to change what has been and will be again,  
her will enclasped as prophets clinging thigh,  
she drinks from the glass of wine's spreading stain;  
stay still! there is gallow's fear whence the tree,  
and hanging town is blood spilt from the sea.

* * *

It's only a moment, but it's freeing. To fling that wretched wig across the floor, the wig she'd earlier placed on her head with such care. It's no matter. She needs the moonlight to join her in the darkness. To be brighter than before.

_(beware Macduff)_

She smiles as she spins. She knows she should be serious, should be stoic, but it's all too good. The eyes all on her as she takes the stage. She dares them to look away, and they won't. They are taken under her spell, her entrancement, and they'll follow her through the night.

It won't last forever, but it's fun while it lasts.

Faces fade away into silhouettes. The light rises. The fight begins.

She knows every step, every move he tries to make, and she takes it first. Even blinded, even cast in shadow, she'll win. She always does.

But knowing the future doesn't make the experience any less exciting.

* * *

outside the bedroom, a garden of stone,  
in moonlight bathed, he walks a dusty path,  
a fate in balance hung and future known,  
his twisting words of movement in his wrath;  
he tries to speak, but crumbling words fall dry,  
and leave tongue like ash to only let howl,  
to turn and stare deep into shadow's eye,  
in bluest cast, seek truth in deeper scowl;  
and now a choice to make of somber bear,  
but choice is not avail on echoed tread,  
return to make same step on borrow'd air,  
and leave this place unnew, for now it's bled;  
but who will save from most uncertain death?  
speak not a word, but his name -- Macbeth!

* * *

It's like standing in the middle of the ocean, waiting for the oncoming storm. The moment before the waves come crashing down. The moment before she's sucked into the tide.

The _beat, beat, beat_ of her heart against her chest, inside the shriveled pit she'd call a soul, and the rhythm of Hecate's breath calling her from High Street to the bar.

They follow, because of course they follow. Hecate is their mother, their lover, their queen. They bow and they worship, and they love.

She can only laugh because she cannot cry. She cannot weep from the joy, from the high, from this beauty. Her brother behind her, his body hot and flush to hers, and her sister in front, smelling of sweat and rosewater, of licorice and tears. Their bodies crush together, of lips and hands and laughter. They wrap around each other and they are one. His lips touch her neck and his hand touches her thigh and she's home.

_Enter MACBETH_

She can see the future because she has seen the past. She knows his fate because she knows her own. And when it is done, he will scream and writhe, and as hard as he may try to hold on, he will rise up and do it again. He will always succumb to power and it will drive him mad. Never changing, always moving, and even death will not stop him.

Lightning flashes and then there's a scream.

And when the storm ends, she touches the hand of her brother, of her sister, and she smiles into the eyes of the tree. Exhaustion rolls off of them in waves, dripping like blood down her breast.

They take their leave once more.

* * *

the pull of dark eyes to his soul won't cease,  
on reaching out to touch, he doesn't think,  
he slowly loses himself piece by piece,  
the music rises and he pours a drink;  
there's no relief in these unholy games,  
for shame is truth in his unbidden lies,  
in grief, he burdens undertaken blames,  
and holds among them, that which truly dies;  
tears hot on his face, and he lets them fall,  
to stand here stoic through love's stolen verse,  
his hand to heart, feel the whispering call,  
the spiral has taken upon the curse;  
the words of the song will never be his,  
he takes one more drink, for that's all there is.

* * *

She's never alone as the ghosts follow her from room to room. She sits and washes the blood from her hands, her arms, her breasts. She runs a wet cloth over the top of her head.

They gather round, two, no, three of them. She catches the gaze of one and she dares him to look away, to look upon her bare breasts instead of her eyes, but he holds steady.

She can feel her brother and sister stir within her. They're fatigued, they're broken. Their silence lingers in her soul, if there is even an soul, like the scent of incense in her clothes. She's tired, but strong, even in their weakness. She gives them her strength, her pleasure, her joy. She gives them her quiet reprieve. She can love and she does love. They need her now and she gives herself to them.

The ghost still watches her, and she stares into his holes of eyes. Then she stands and holds the cloth out to him. He wipes the blood from her back, and when she turns to him, she kisses the tip of his face in thanks.

Now, to find her sister and brother again for wine, for food, for mouths to touch upon mouths. There is still one more game to play.

* * *

descend the stairs once more, finality waits,  
the night comes to ceremonious close,  
come drink! the table expects all fair straights,  
for once more the spirits have long arose;  
do touch and kiss, movement quiet and slow,  
more is said in frozen smiles and gazes  
than words could speak in falsely bloody blow,  
the nightmare to end in hopeless praises;  
in light and blood are temptations here made,  
for it was such a romantic affair,  
oh, taste the wine of our trespasses bade,  
for falling is more and greatest despair;  
one final step up in perilous life,  
in a moment's end, to relieve the strife.

* * *

The feast is done, and she stands in the forest she has made. It is the wood from her dreams, like the castle, and like Manderley. In the darkness, she finds the hand of her sister and together they walk the stairs back to where they had started. The ghosts follow them, but they pay no mind.

They stop together and first look into each other's eyes. Then, over their shoulders, they look at the window of kings before and kings hereafter. It will begin again, and her body shakes with the anticipation. Her mind moves with the music. Her heart beat, beat, beats against her chest. To have the high and the low, and the joy and the pain once more.

She knows it like she knows the lines of her hand, or the touch of her sister's mouth upon her neck.

She smiles.

Once, she dreamt of a hotel, but it was more than a hotel. It was everything. It was the crashing sea, the maze of darkness; the blood on her face, and the smoke in her lungs.

It was a devil's trap, and wide awake, she entered.

For all dreamers, the night must end. But for some, the end is only the beginning.

_All hail._


End file.
